“You have no idea,” Deveraux muttered.
His responsibility. His woman. There was something primal about that. Something that felt damn good.
“You shouldn’t have let her leave,” Maxen added. “She might be in danger, even if simply by association.”
Drake’s jaw tightened. As if he had not replayed that moment a dozen times already, each iteration ending the same way, with her back straight, her eyes guarded, and his own pride standing in the way of sense. “She chose to go. I was advised to let her.”
“Is that so?”
He shot his brother a look meant to end the inquiry, but Maxen merely folded his arms, patient in the infuriating way of a man who knew when to wait.
Reaper leaned back on his stool. “For what it’s worth, women rarelychoosewhen they’re given only one path.”
Dagger grimaced. “God’s blood, will you lot stop poking him? He’s already halfway to putting his fist through something.”
“What’s done is done. I don’t think she’ll return to be confined here.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have treated her so coldly after she spent the night in your chambers,” Deveraux pointed out.
Drake glared at the man, his foot already moving toward this brother for whom he wanted nothing more than to wring his neck. “What the devil do you know?”
Reaper was between them at once, palm braced against Drake’s shoulder.
Deveraux shrugged. “I know the walls are thin.”
Drake cursed, gaze cutting over his brothers who all seemed to refuse to meet his eyes. Very well, then. Was it any damn wonder Maxen moved out? “Breathe a word of this to—”
“Your little bird,frère? Oh, we know better than to poke the best fighter in London.”
Deveraux snorted. “Well, some of us, at least.”
“Enough,” Maxen said. “What’s your plan here, Drake? She might be in danger. She might not. It’s best to be safe with these things.”
Drake nodded. “I’ll go collect her.” He didn’t know how to bloody convince her, but he wouldn’t return without her no matter what. The moment the decision was made, something inside him rightened itself.
The door to the tavern opened and Pip, one of the boys that collected information for him from time to time, burst in, heading straight for Drake, handing him a letter. “For you.”
Drake furrowed his brows. No emblem crested the wax seal. “From whom?”
“I can’t say,” Pip faltered.
Maxen grabbed the boy by the back of the collar while Drake cracked the seal and unfolded the note.
What the devil was this? “When shall we ‘eight’ meet again?” he read out loud. “In thunder, lightning, or in rain? Signed, S.”
The whole tap room froze.
Drake stared at the note. Read it again. Felt the full implication of it arrive in stages, each one worse than the last.
Saint broke the silence first. “Sirius.”
Quite right. His uncle.
Dagger scowled, snatching the note from Drake. “What the deuce does this even mean?”
“Macbeth,” Deveraux pointed out. “It means when you cross paths again, he expects it to be chaotic. Violent.”
Maxen lifted Pip by the scruff and snarled. “Who sent it, boy?”
